Firefly Beach

by Luanne Rice

  Maripat led the steep parade up the stone steps. Caroline and Homer brought up the rear. Petting the dog, encouraging him along, Caroline took one last glance at the ships at sea. Joe Connor. Telling the truth about life and death could get you in trouble, no matter which way you went.

  When they got to the top, Homer paused for a moment. The western edge of the property was a nature sanctuary, a small forest of oaks and scrub pines. The woods were cool and wild, and they sounded their mysterious call. Homer cast Caroline an articulate look of love. Then he swung around, walking quickly, disappearing into the trees.

  Never forgetting that she had first come upon him in woods, Caroline watched him go.

  April 2, 1978

  Dear Joe,

  I can’t believe I’ve never asked you this, but do you have any pets? People always say it’s possible to be a cat person or a dog person, but never both. I guess that makes me weird. I’m both. The problem is, I love saltwater so much, I want my animals to, too. I taught my first puppy how to swim. He sank first, and I dove down and found him walking through the seaweed. But then he floated up and swam like a champ. (Actually, I had to rescue him—but he ran right back in!) Cats are another story. They’d rather curl up on the window seat and listen to the waves.

  Time for me to listen to my sisters. They want me to stop writing you and go outside with them. Until later!

  Love,

  Caroline

  April 15, 1978

  Dear Caroline,

  This has to be short because I want to go sailing and the wind’s perfect. Right now my only pet is my boat. She’s fifteen feet, very fast, doesn’t eat much. If I could live on the water for the rest of my life, I’d be happy. Maybe I will. You’re a dog person and a cat person, and I’m a boat person.

  Love,

  Joe

  “WHAT ARE YOU STARING AT?” AUGUSTA RENWICK asked, hating the silence. Her oldest daughter was standing at the big picture window facing seaward, looking across Long Island Sound with Hugh’s shooting scope. When Augusta arrived home a few hours earlier, a troubled silence had billowed in, settling on the room like a great gray fog bank and encouraging Clea and Maripat to cut their visit short.

  “Just a minute,” Caroline said. Augusta felt hurt by her tone. She sat on the down love seat, curled up under a cashmere throw, needlepointing a pillow for Skye: swans and a castle, the motif from Swan Lake.

  “I’m halfway finished,” Augusta said just to make conversation. “Swan Lake. Wasn’t that a happy memory for you and your sisters? The night your father took you to the ballet? Down to New York City in those black velvet dresses…You all came home wanting to be ballerinas. Maybe we should have encouraged Skye to study dance.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “She’s always been so critical of herself. She thinks she can’t paint, and now that she’s having such a time, so blocked with her sculpting, it would be wonderful if she had something else to fall back on.”

  “You don’t fall back on being a prima ballerina, Mom.”

  Augusta glanced over. Of course she had said the wrong thing. Speaking of Skye, she walked on eggshells with Caroline; she had no confidence in herself whatsoever.

  But then, as if Caroline could suddenly read her mind, she smiled, trying to unhurt her mother’s feelings, and said, “I just mean dancing’s a life’s work, like sculpting. I think it would be either-or, not both. Obsessive professions.”

  “Like loving your father,” Augusta said, trying to joke.

  But Caroline wouldn’t laugh. She shut down on that subject. She had always seemed so sternly competent, looking after her sisters like a mother hen when Augusta had abdicated her position, at times when things with Hugh had been the most precarious. Looking back, Augusta had a million regrets, but she knew one thing: She had never loved her daughters less than ferociously. That knowledge gave her courage to keep going.

  “Any one of you could have danced the ballet,” Augusta said. “Maybe not as your life’s work, but you certainly had the grace and spirit for it. And your legs! Your father would look at your legs and say they were over the legal limit.”

  No comment. Augusta did her needlepoint, accepting Caroline’s silence. All three girls were exquisite, temperamental beauties; right now, in Caroline’s case, with an accent on the temperamental. Staring at her daughter, Augusta could only imagine the bad-parent accusations swirling around in her head.

  Caroline had always been on edge, watching for something to happen, defending her little sisters against everything. Even their parents, Augusta thought, trying not to feel hurt. Watching Caroline now, staring off to sea, Augusta imagined her as a sentinel maintaining watch over the ones she loved. Her heart ached for her daughter, who didn’t have enough love in her life. Always the one protecting other people.

  She needed a man, Augusta thought. Beautiful but rather severe, with her dark hair all swept up, her clothing the colors of rocks or architecture: shades of granite and slate and brick and sandstone. Such a successful businesswoman, she intimidated all the men in town—scared them half to death. In her free time she traveled constantly, much too much. Or she hiked in the woods, alone.

  “Caroline,” Augusta said, rising. “What can be so interesting out there?”

  “Come see,” Caroline said. She handed the glass to Augusta, helped her steady it against her right eye. “There.”

  Augusta held the brass tube and tried to focus. The metal felt warm under her hands, from Caroline’s grip. She blinked against the lens, twisted the eyepiece, trying to make sense of what she was looking at. A big circle of open ocean with a few boats in the middle.

  “Fishermen,” she said.

  “No,” Caroline said. “They’re not.”

  Augusta laughed. Was Caroline joking? She lived here, looked out this window a hundred times a day. She knew fishing boats when she saw them. They’d surf the rip at Moonstone Reef, throw their lines overboard, hoping to catch bluefish and sharks. Hugh had fished there himself, although most of his sportfishing had been for big game in the Canyon beyond Block Island, or south, in the Bahamas or the Keys. Still, she stared at the boats. What was that plume shooting like a jet of water?

  “What are they doing?” she asked.

  “Diving for treasure,” Caroline said.

  Augusta lowered the lens. She gazed at Caroline’s lovely gray-blue eyes and saw them so alive, so full of fire, she couldn’t speak. Something was going on. It was like looking at a person having a religious vision.

  “Darling, are you kidding?” Augusta asked.

  “They’re bringing up a shipwreck,” Caroline said.

  “Really?” Augusta asked. She adored things like shipwrecks. Why else would she live in a godforsaken mansion on the Sound if she didn’t? Even more, it felt like a bond with Caroline. A shipwreck was something they could enjoy together. Curious, she raised the glass to her eye again. “How do you know?”

  “A friend told me,” Caroline said. “It’s the Cambria.”

  “The Cambria…” Augusta said. The name sounded familiar.

  “That fountain thing you’re seeing is actually sand. They have a compressor on board their boat that blows sand away from the wreck so they can get to the gold.”

  “How exciting,” Augusta said. She watched the spray of sand, tried to see the people on board the boats. At this distance, they were tiny and faceless, like toys. Even the big boats tossing on the waves looked miniature. Augusta smiled with pride. Leave it to Caroline to know everything going on in the area.

  “How do you hear about these things?” Augusta asked, beaming. “It must be terribly top secret. I haven’t seen a word about it in the papers. And no one’s talking.”

  “I suppose it is a secret,” Caroline said.

  “You know I keep a secret better than anyone,” Augusta said. But the awful look on Caroline’s face made her heart sink.

  “I know you do,” Caroline said, making it sound like an indictment. She walked across the
room, sat down in the Windsor rocker. In the time it took, she composed herself. When she directed her gaze at Augusta, her face was placid and neutral. Augusta swallowed. She was in for something she wasn’t going to like.

  “We have to talk about Skye,” Caroline said.

  Involuntarily Augusta touched the pearls around her neck. Why were they called “black” when they were actually the most amazing shade of dove gray? She glanced at Caroline.

  “Have I ever told you your eyes are exactly the same color as my pearls?” she asked, smiling, still touching the pearls.

  “Yes,” Caroline said, patiently rocking.

  “Eyes the color of black pearls. So rare…Some wonderful man will see that someday. He will. Ordinary men would look at you and say your eyes are blue, or blue-gray, but the right man will know immediately. He will tell you your eyes are the color of black pearls.”

  “Mom, you heard what Dr. Henderson said,” Caroline said, leaning forward. “That she’s an alcoholic.”

  Augusta shook her head. She had had time to process what the doctor had said. While she knew Skye was emotional, she refused to lend credence to the idea of her being an alcoholic. But Caroline was rocking away, determined to discuss it.

  “He’s crazy,” Augusta said. “He doesn’t know her. She’s an artist, like your father. It’s normal for artists to drink.”

  “Don’t compare her to Dad.”

  “Such a terrible resentment,” Augusta said sadly. “You and your sisters feel so angry at your father for those hunts, and all he wanted was to spend a little time alone with his girls.”

  “Turn us into boys,” Caroline said, patting the dog.

  “That is not true. He would attack anyone who suggested that he wished even one of you were a son instead of a daughter. He just wanted you to enjoy the outdoors, the way he did.”

  “It was a little more complicated than that,” Caroline said kindly after the briefest of pauses.

  “Well,” Augusta began, but she trailed off. She didn’t have the heart for an argument. Augusta was nonviolent. She didn’t believe in guns or knives. She hadn’t wanted her daughters exposed to danger, wild animals, or the thin night air. But she had adored her husband beyond all reason. When he had wanted to take the girls hunting overnight on the mountain, she hadn’t spoken up, even though her heart had told her he was wrong.

  “What do we do, then, Mom? Without blaming Dad or calling Skye an alcoholic, how do we help her?”

  “We bring her home. We encourage her and love her.”

  “We will do all those things. We always have. But they’re not enough anymore.”

  Augusta watched Caroline kneel next to Homer, who had started to scratch himself.

  Working a seed pod free from where it had tangled in a clump of fur, Caroline pulled too hard. Yelping, he looked over his shoulder at Augusta, his big brown eyes liquid with injury.

  “I didn’t do it,” Augusta said to the dog.

  “Remember when we brought him home?” Caroline asked, stroking the old dog. His eyes were closed, his ribs visible through his rough yellow coat.

  “He’s a big pain in the neck,” Augusta said, sounding less affectionate than she felt and ignoring Caroline’s question. He had gotten Caroline and Skye through those first awful weeks after the hunting accident, although she knew that Caroline thought the opposite was true: that she had helped the dog in his grief.

  “You love him, Mom,” Caroline said. “You can’t kid any of us.”

  “He’d be a stray if it weren’t for me,” Augusta said, watching him slobber all over Caroline. “I wonder if anyone remembers that.”

  The young man had lived in New Hampshire, on a fellowship to Dartmouth, but his family was from San Francisco and wanted no part of shipping a dog across the country, to live in the middle of a city. The police had taken him to the pound in Hanover. Augusta had allowed Homer into her house because Caroline had been unable to bear thinking of him abandoned, because she had convinced Augusta that saving the dog would help Skye. And because Hugh had needed to do it as well.

  “What about Skye, Mom?” Caroline asked now.

  “I don’t know what’s set her off,” Augusta said carefully. “What’s making her so upset all of a sudden. I think we should let her come home, get some rest, and not go looking for trouble. The past is a minefield, and I for one am tired of it.”

  “Mom—”

  “End of the story. Hear me, Caroline?” Augusta asked sharply. She pulled off her half-glasses and glared over Homer’s head at Caroline.

  “You’re wrong, Mom,” Caroline said, rising. “It won’t be the end of the story.”

  “And what is? You and your sisters crying about your father to any stranger who’ll listen? While I sit there and try to defend him? He loved you all. And I defy you to tell anyone, especially yourself, otherwise.”

  “Mom, the end of the story is Skye’s funeral,” Caroline said, her voice thick with anger and tears. Her black-pearl eyes were brimming, furious.

  “Don’t you dare say that,” Augusta said.

  “Maybe she’ll fall and hit her head, or maybe she’ll take too many pills. Maybe it won’t be a car wreck next time. Or maybe it will. She killed a man, Mom, and I think it makes her want to die herself.”

  “Caroline,” Augusta said dangerously, feeling her head starting to shake, the way it did when she got upset.

  Caroline came across the room. She knelt before her mother’s chair and held her hands. Seeing her elegant daughter kneel before her in such abject supplication was too much for Augusta to bear. She tried to push Caroline away, but Caroline wouldn’t move. She stared straight into Augusta’s eyes.

  “Please, Mom,” Caroline said, the tears just running down her cheeks. “It’s you I’m thinking of almost as much as Skye. I know how you’ll feel if something happens. You won’t be able to stand it. You love Skye so much. Let’s pull together now. Do whatever it takes to help her. Let’s start by being honest, okay?”

  Augusta took a deep breath. She leaned forward, touched the tip of her nose against Caroline’s. Their eyes met, and, as always, Augusta was struck by the depth, the beauty, the compassion in Caroline’s eyes. The emotion was enough to take your breath away. Hugh had caught it once, just once, in that portrait he had done of her, his famous Girl in a White Dress.

  Backing away, Augusta brushed a stray wisp of raven hair off Caroline’s forehead. She set her needlepoint aside. Arching her back, she stood tall. Looking down at Caroline, still on her knees, she thought of her own childhood, of going to church to pray for help. She wondered whether her children remembered their Catholic upbringing, whether they ever turned to prayer. Or whether they had stopped believing at the same time as Augusta and Hugh, right after the accident at Redhawk.

  “Your father did love you,” Augusta said, watching Caroline’s face. It remained impassive. “Those hunts were his way…. He was larger than life, and he showed his love in extraordinary ways.”

  “I know,” Caroline said.

  “Would you like a cocktail?” Augusta asked. “I’m going to have one.”

  Caroline bowed her head. She didn’t say yes, she didn’t say no. She seemed to be thinking it over. She gave the appearance of devotion, of praying. Augusta would mix enough for two. She patted Caroline’s head. Then she walked away, toward the flower room, where they kept the bar.

  Extraordinary ways. Caroline sat at the top of the beach stairway with Homer, remembering her father. On the way to Redhawk, she was the navigator. She was supposed to say “head northeast” instead of “take a right,” and when they came to an intersection and looked both ways, she would tell her father “clear,” just like a copilot would say. She knew the things that made him happy, and she liked to do them.

  One time she had a fever. Leaving for the mountain she had been healthy, enthusiastic. But that night, alone in her tent, she got sick. Her throat blazed, and her head ached. The hair on her head hurt. She had chills. She was
fifteen, and when she got sick at home she knew how to take care of herself, but way out there she felt scared. Crying, she just wanted the sun to come up.

  Her father heard her. He came into her tent, felt her head, held her in his arms while she shivered. In all the times they had camped out in their separate tents, she had thought she was all alone. Having her father come when she called was a surprise, and in her feverish state made her cry harder.

  “You’re sick, sweetheart,” he said. “We have to go home right away.”

  He bundled her up, told her to sit still while he got her sisters. Caroline waited, unable to believe what was happening. She was fifteen, unused to being taken care of. The hunts were her chance to be with her father, but nothing had ever made her feel so loved as having him tell her they were going home. Knowing that she was sick, and giving her what she needed.

  While her sisters took down her tent and their own, Caroline’s father walked her to the car. He started it up, settled her in the front seat, frequently touching her head to see if the fever had gone down. He was so big and tough, with gray eyes that never showed his feelings, but Caroline remembered how worried he looked that night. It was after midnight; her sisters should have been sleepy, but they were excited. Leaning against her father, shivering in spite of the blasting heat, Caroline had felt so happy.

  She had scarlet fever.

  But then she thought of another time, years later, driving home from the same mountain after Skye had shot Andrew Lockwood.

  They had spent the day at the police station. Skye was in one interrogation room, Caroline in another. So many questions: Did you know the man? Ever see him before? Was there any conversation before the shot was fired? A confrontation? Did your sister seem angry? What was her mood like?

  Caroline was in shock. She understood that now, but at the time she had thought she was just tired. All she wanted to do was put her head on the desk and fall asleep. She kept seeing the man, hearing her own calm voice ask him his name. Hearing his voice say “Andrew.” His eyes, his mouth, the feeling of his hand in hers. He was hers forever; no one would ever know him as well. Thinking of Andrew, she promised herself she would take care of his dog.